dear you

The sun sets unbearably early these days in New Jersey. Probably in other places, too, but in your wooded suburb it seems as if by the time the light has made it through to you on the ground the darkness has already arrived. You'd love to just curl up under your blankets and let the world pass you by, but unfortunately, since you have to work, that's not possible. Lately it seems like there's nothing you can do to make your shifts end at any time before sunset. It's kind of depressing. Daylight is nice, but even that doesn't bring much respite from the fact that you live in what seems like the middle of nowhere sometimes. To drive just about anywhere, you've got to pass through a hole at the center of the universe - just past your old elementary school, just past where you went to summer camp, just past the housing development where your teenage best friend used to live, the world is suddenly torn up into acres and acres of barren field. Though you played literally right next to this neverending field of absolutely nothing many times as a child, you never questioned why your hometown was like this; an upper-middle class suburb that thinks it's some kind of isolated farm collective out in, like, rural Georgia (except not as hot and with less peaches. You've never been to Georgia). In fact, you only realized that this was all kind of weird once you'd lived in the city for a while. Maybe it was your learned expectation that tall buildings should be absolutely everywhere at all times, but you just couldn't take your eyes off that field after moving back home. This made driving rather difficult at first, since it extends all the way down Village Road. If you keep going, as you always must, you reach a point where Village Road ends and Cranbury Neck Road begins. It's a T-shaped intersection, so you've got to turn either left or right. There are no traffic lights in this space, just a warning for deer, a single stop sign, and flat, boring land all around you. If the field's edge was the emptiest place in the world, then this intersection must be the loneliest. Once you turn onto Cranbury Neck, of course, you'll rediscover civilization if you drive five minutes in either direction. Just like how that field isn't //really// isolated. People live nearby and grow things there. It's not all that bad, you're mostly exaggerating to keep yourself entertained. Hyperbole aside, though, when the roads are silent after dark and this intersection is illuminated by a single pool of streetlight, something about it has always made you feel as if you aren't supposed to be there. And it gets dark very early around here these days. [[◍ ◍->4]]

You don't go out much except for work, but tonight you've, surprisingly enough, just left an old high school friend's house. Well, more like high school //acquaintance//. Or person with whom you once had mutual friends who probably just wanted to verify whether you were still alive or not. It went about as well as one might expect. Sometimes you feel bad about never being invited to parties, but if they're all like tonight's, maybe you shouldn't. It's been one of those nights where you've wanted to go home for the past three hours, but a bowl of chips and the hopes that something fun might eventually happen kept you rooted to the floor longer than intended. Now that you're finally behind the wheel, it's almost midnight. Because these are the suburbs, this means that absolutely no one else is on the road. So it's very easy to see, as you are turning left onto Village Road, the solitary figure standing at the lane divider in the middle of the road. They're right underneath the only streetlight, but what illuminates them is not that pool of light. It's something within them that glows, something in the long, billowing white dress they wear, perhaps - though your eyes can't focus well enough to tell whether they cut a feminine or masculine (or whatever) silhouette. You slam the breaks, of course. You'd never hit a pedestrian, even if they are just standing in the middle of the road. But before you can honk or get out of the car or even just take the time to stare, they're gone. They've disappeared completely. The only thing surrounding you for miles is barren field. There is nowhere this person could've gone without you seeing, and you never once took your eyes off them. It must've just been a trick of the light, then. [[◍ ◍->5]]

Even so, you're hesitant to pass through that intersection on the next day's drive home from work. It was definitely just some sort of illusion you saw, no doubt about it, but the idea of going back while other cars are still on the road just bothers you now. If you were only able to catch that glowing pedestrian's five second appearance because of how alone you were, what else might you be missing during a regular commute? For once, night driving seems not awful in theory. You make excuses to stay out later; you do some window shopping, get dinner, and spend far too long looking through books at the library that you know you will never read. With each activity you check the time, wondering if maybe the roads might be empty enough now to see someone standing under the streetlight at the end of Village Road. But last night's hallucination was all in your head, so you don't know why you're even doing this in the first place. [[◍ ◍->6]]

Somehow you've managed to stay out until around 11:30 PM. You told your parents that you'd met up with a friend, which you wish was the truth instead of all the time you've been killing for the past couple hours. The roads will certainly be empty now, though. You have no more excuses. Not that you had one to start with. You're not going to see anyone at that intersection again, no matter how late it is. But the drive will be easier now without having to deal with traffic. Despite the lack of cars, however, you feel far from alone. Herds of deer seem to line the roadside in perpetuity, staring at you with an orange glaze as your headlights hit their eyes. There are so many - this must be why there's a warning sign at the intersection. You've never much liked deer. It's just a matter of time until one runs out into the street and kills either itself, you, or both. You continue along down Cranberry Neck, some unfitting disco track playing softly over your phone. In the back of your mind, you rehearse what you are about to do. You are going to arrive at the intersection, slow down, and then make a neat left turn onto Village Road. You will do this and you will not see the apparition from yesterday standing there or anywhere else. It's not going to happen. And then you see a soft glow down the road. [[◍ ◍->8]]

<div class="img"><center> ` `.-./-:-` -ohmNNNNNmd+- +ymNMMNmNNMMNyo` ymNMMMNmNNNMNNd+ :hNMMNmmmmmmNNNNy- -sNMMmdmmmmdydmmo. -/hNNmdmmmdyoo+ho- -//yhyydmmmdyo+oNN/: `---/yyhdmmmddh+ .ymh/` oyhhydddhddddmdhs/-ys++/-- .ddddyohhddddddmddhhs+:/:.:- -mddmdoshddddddhhhhhhyyyos:. -dddddoshdddddddhhhhhhysos/. :dmmmmdddddddmmmmmddhhyyyhho :dhhddddmNmmmmNmNmmmmmhyyyhy :hhdddddmmmmmmmmmmmmmmNhyyhy` :hhhddhmNNNmNNNNNNNNmNNNhyys. -yhhhhNMMMMMNNNNNNNNNMMMMdys. ./+odNNNMMMNNNNMMNNMNNMMMMms. `+dNMNNMMMMNNNNMNNNMNMMMMMMm. /MMMNNMMMMMMMMMMMNNMNNMMMMMy `ymNNMMMMMMMMMMMMNNMNNMNMMM/ :dmNMMNNMMNNMMMMNNMNNNNNNd` sddNMMNMMMNNMMMMNNMNNNMNNm. yhhNMMNNMNNNMMMMNNMNNNMNNMd hydMMMNNMNNNMMMMNNMMNNMNMNM- dymMMMMMMNNMMMMMMNNNNMMNNNNh -dNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNMMNNNNM/ `hhNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNMMNNNNMm :dNMMMMMMMNMMMMMMMMMNNNMMNNNNMN: yMMMNMMMMNNMMMMMMMMMNNNMMNNNNMMo dNMMNNMMMNNNNMMMMMMMNNNMMNNNNMMd .oNMMMMMMMNNNNNMMMMMMNNNMMNNNNNMN- /dMMNMMMMNMNNNMMMMMMMNNNMMNNNNMMM+ .yMMMMMMMMNMNMNMMMMMMMNNNMMNNNNNMMh :NMMMNNNMMNNNMNMMMMMMMNNNMMMNNNNMMN` `hMMMMNNNMNNNNNNMMMMMMMNNNMMMMNNNMMM: .NMMMMMMMMNNNNMMMMMMMMMNNNMMMMNNNMMM+ /MMMMMMMMMNNNNNMMMMMMMMNNNMMMMMNNMMMy hMMMMMMMMMNNNNNMMMMMMMMNNNMMMMNNNMMMN` `NMMMMMMMMMNNNNNMMMMMMMMNNNMMMNNNNMMMMy /MMNmNNmhhmNNNhydNdhhmNNMNNMmyosss+//so ./` `` ``` .`` ` ```` ` `.`/ </center> </div>Your heart jumps into your throat and stays there for good. There they are again. That single solitary figure standing still in the middle of the road, just like a deer in headlights. At this point you've crawled to a complete stop without even realizing it, afraid to even blink, knowing that this apparition will disappear the second that you do. You cannot allow yourself to look away even for the slightest moment. And it's very strange. You've got your glasses on, glasses that you just cleaned this morning, but something about this figure is just...blurry. As if your eyes are being forced to unfocus whenever you zero in too close on any details. It's difficult to visually comprehend what is in front of you. But the mirage smiles. You can make that out at least, the movement of something that must surely be a mouth. And they do not disappear - not yet, anyway. You put the car into park, letting it idle right there in the intersection. It doesn't matter. No other cars will come. [[◍ ◍->9]]

They're looking right at you, blurry dark dots tracking your every move with unknown intent. Dry eyed, you exit your car and step outside. The two of you are mere feet away now. Foggy breath escapes your mouth, but not theirs. It's unusually cold for a November night. Some amount of silent time passes, and before you can even tell whether or not this apparition's mouth is open, words have come out of it. "<div class= 'dear'>Can you see me?</div>" they ask. Their voice is covered in a thick layer of static that prevents you from hearing it with any decent clarity. It doesn't sound like anything you've ever heard before at all. You're not sure if it's even something that human vocal chords could produce. You nod anyway, stupefied. [[◍ ◍->10]]

"<div class= 'dear'>I thought so. I was hoping you'd come back after last night,</div>" they say. "I had to know if you were real," you say. They take a step forward. In between the blur of their endless dress, you can't tell at all if they're wearing shoes. Assuming they even have feet to start with. "<div class= 'dear'>'Real' is kind of a relative term, don't you think?</div>" they ask. Another glide forward. Despite how close they are now, the finer details of their face still remain a blur, as if your eyes are some cheap phone camera struggling to see in the dark. "<div class= 'dear'>If being real is defined by the marks you make upon the world...then no, I'm not real.</div>" they say. "<div class='dear'>But I can prove to you that I exist if you'd like.</div>" Despite how close they are now, you feel no warmth at all emanating from their body. What does reach you is not any sense of temperature but some sort of heavy, unintelligible force that makes all your body hair stand on end. This //should// alarm you, but it's already become extremely clear that this spectre in front of you is human only in vague silhouette. The only thing that concerns you right now is learning more. "Go ahead," you say. And then they touch you right at the center of your chest. [[◍ ◍->12]]

you realize that dear is trying to drag you into a trap

you realize it's the bad touch? idk

Maybe it's because you're so touch starved, or because they're a ghost or something - you can't really tell, but the touch of their fingers on your breastbone is like static sifting its way piece by piece down into your skin. It's like when your foot falls asleep, but if those pins and needles were completely systemic. Something integral to this apparition is now flowing through you, a message loud and clear: <div class="dear">//I am here. I am real. I am here. I am real.//</div> Over and over until it reaches your nerve endings and then it turns around to carve its message deeper still into you. And it feels //good//. "<div class="dear">Did that feel real to you?</div>" they ask. You can't answer their question, whether or not it was even meant to be answered, until they remove their hand from your chest, and by then you've forgotten what it was. All you can think about now is how much you //need// for them to touch you like that again, to feel their static under your skin for just a minute more. An impulse to beg pulls at your lips. "Can I come see you again tomorrow night?" you ask instead. If you don't get yourself out of here soon, who knows what you might do. "<div class="dear">Please. Come tomorrow night and then every night after that if you can. It's been so long since someone has been able to see me, I don't want to let this chance slip by,</div>" they say. No one has ever wanted you around so badly before. [[◍ ◍->13]]

Despite getting home so late, you wake up early and go to work the next day like you're not even tired. You're just so distracted by everything that's happened that you can't pay attention to your own body's feelings. The ghost. That nameless, formless apparition who stands at the intersection between Village and Cranbury Neck Roads. They're real, they've got static flowing through their body instead of blood, and they're waiting eagerly for you to come back tonight. "//Tomorrow night and then every night after that if you can//". You can't recall the last time someone was so excited to see you. It must be so lonely out there at night - no one can see or hear them except you. There's no one to talk to and nothing to occupy their time besides cars passing through. Who knows how long they might've had to wait for someone like you if you hadn't stayed out so late last night? In comparison, your wait to see them again tonight seems like a mere matter of seconds. [[◍ ◍->14]]

Surely they were real. Surely a real person, entity, or hallucination must have spoken to you that night at the intersection between Cranbury Neck and Grover's Mill roads. Surely you got back into your car, drove the rest of the way home, and put yourself to bed, all with the knowledge that you'd be returning. Because you do intend to return. You have to. There's nothing else to do in this town, anyway. / You've already put on your breaks by the time you mentally register the spirit standing in the exact same spot at the middle of the intersection. Is there something special about that space in the middle? You want to ask, but there are so many other questions that come first. "What are you?" you ask. You don't think you can bear another second of not knowing what you've been doing out here at the intersection between Grover's Mill and Cranbury Neck. Though you can't see, you feel their mouth curl up into a smile. Assuming they even have a mouth. "Just a lonely spirit standing by the road," they say. "So you're not real, then," you ask, unsure if the question can even be answered with a yes or a no. "Oh no, I can show you just how real I am if you'd like," they say. The static over their voice makes it difficult to divine their intentions, but you nod regardless. They glide towards you, just like last night. In a heartbeat, they stand right in front of you. / The surprise is kind of silly, actually. At some point during last night's session of heavy clothed petting (which is all that happened, honest), Dear made a comment about how soft and warm your jacket felt. You offered to give it to them, but, of course, they politely refused. "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly! You need a nice coat like that much more than I do!" they'd said. You knew that they wouldn't ever have the nerve to say yes, despite how cold it must get out there. It's the middle of November, after all. Even a ghost will have trouble thriving in below freezing temperatures in just a dress. So you've decided to bring them a little surprise tonight. You have a little money saved up, so it's fine. There's nothing else to spend it on. /

You leave your home at 11:45 PM - which is late, yes, but the spirit //did// say "night", not evening. And the closer to midnight the better, you figure. Your parents, already half asleep on the couch, don't ask where you're going, just if you're working tomorrow. "No, not until Thursday," you say, and they nod. If you keep doing this every night you're going to have to start coming up with actual excuses, but that seems like a problem for future you. [[◍ ◍->15]]

The intersection is normally only a couple minutes away from your home, but you've always come from the opposite direction and wouldn't want to startle the ghost by changing now, so you've got to circle around and approach it from Cranbury Neck like you did the past two nights. The deer stand thick at the side of the road again tonight. You speed right along with hopes that they'll do nothing more than stare. You kind of hate how deer always look like they're warning you. Of what, you don't know, but probably to mind your own business. Either way, it's creepy. But you forget everything about the deer once you see that glow stretching around the bend. [[◍ ◍->16]]

You actually park this time by the side of the road, two tires hanging onto the unpaved road edge and the others dipping down onto the grass beside it. The car door slams hastily behind you as you stuff your keys into your jacket pocket. Your eyes turn towards the usual lane divider, ready to greet your new spirit friend with open arms. But they're not there. The glow is, but they aren't. A deep pulse beats through your body. You suddenly hear a series of high pitched noises, rhythmic and breathy. You'd like to use a more precise term than just "noise", but that's exactly what this is - the background noise of some low-quality recording if it were transposed into a more organic register. It occurs to you that what you are hearing might be laughter. "<div class="dear">Over here,</div>" they say from somewhere behind you, and you whirl around. There they are, leaning against the hood of your car. You can't make out their face, of course, but they seem to be in good spirits (no pun intended). "How far can you go from the center of the road?" is all you can think to ask. You'd assumed that there was something fixing them to that rough geographical spot, but that was, of course, nothing but an assumption. "<div class="dear">Anywhere within the intersection is generally fine,</div>" they say. "So you can't leave?" you ask. They shake their head, leaving behind distortions in the air that disappear as soon as you catch sight of them. You come and sit beside them on the car. You can almost feel the stray static from their skin brushing up against your skin. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on your part. But you try to stay focused. This isn't about you. "So...I don't know if this might be rude, but are you some kind of ghost?" you ask. You can't really make out the look on their face, but they don't //seem// particularly offended. "<div class="dear">Something like that. Ghost, spirit, apparition...however you'd like to think of me. Once someone called me a, um, cryptid. They hunted for me out here in these fields for weeks until they got the message that I wasn't going to show,</div>" they say. You catch traces of that noise of theirs from earlier between their words. It definitely must be laughter. "Can I ask if you're a man or a woman, or...?" you ask. It doesn't really matter, but you'd like to get that squared away before something awkward happens, and it seems even more gauche somehow to ask a ghost their pronouns. "<div class="dear">Maybe. I might've been one of those once, but now...well, I'm just stuck out here for what seems like eternity,</div>" they say, gazing up into the blank, uniform night sky. Even through all the static, you can hear a deep layer of loneliness in their voice. It kind of makes you want to cry. "<div class="dear">But enough about me,</div>" they say. "<div class="dear">Why don't you tell me something about yourself?</div>" This is typically one of your least favorite questions to answer, since there isn't much to say. You're an average young adult who's been living in your hometown for a year now after studying a seemingly unemployable field at school. You're not a huge fan of sleeping in your childhood bedroom, but there seem to be even fewer opportunities everywhere else. And at least you know all the roads here. "<div class="dear">Yes, but //who// are you? Why were you out driving so late the other night? What do you think of when you look out at these fields? If you could live anywhere, where would you rather be?</div>" they ask. Something tells you this won't be the end of their questions either. They seem like they genuinely want to know, so you answer everything to the best of your abilities, no matter how weird or personal. With each bit of trivia you answer, something in their aura seems to shift, as if absorbing this new information into their memory. As if they are hanging deeply onto your every word. No one's ever wanted to learn so much about you before. [[◍ ◍->17]]

As the two of you continue to talk, your hands creep closer together on the hood of your car. You know this because you are feeling their static tumble through the air more vigorously with every second, and also because you are, admittedly, moving your hand towards theirs on purpose. And they are moving theirs towards yours in return. One of their fingers, or what you assume is a finger, climbs gently onto the back of your hand. Another finger or two follows. That familiar feeling of static enters your body once more, making its way up your wrist like some sort of long, form-fitting glove. But this time it's not the static that is occupying your full attention. It is the even more unbelievable feeling coming swiftly towards you that you are about to be kissed by a ghost. And you are. On the mouth. With lips that feel much more like caterpillar fuzz than they do actual flesh, but it certainly is a kiss and you certainly do want it. It goes without saying that this kiss ignites an enormous amount of //feeling// inside of you. Pins and needles massage your mouth and spread throughout your skull until you can't think straight. Not that you were thinking straight to begin with, but it's very difficult to focus on anything other than the sensations buzzing pleasantly through your brain right now. It's nice. It's very nice, in fact. You nearly forget who you are by the time this kiss ends. Saliva (yours? //theirs//??) coats your lower lip, and you don't wipe it away. As always, you can't make out the exact expression on the spirit's face, but their words are more than enough to clue you in on what they're thinking. "<div class="dear">Oh my gosh! Did we really just do that?!</div>" they exclaim, clapping a hazy hand over the mouth with which you have just become acquainted. "I think we did," you reply. You'd like to be more certain about what just happened, but you're so out of it right now that they could tell you the sky was green and you'd believe it. "<div class="dear">Ahh, how embarrassing...!</div>" they cry, looking away in what must be shyness. "<div class="dear">I've never done anything like that with someone before!</div>" Never kissed anyone before? Even //you//, in all your complete lack of desirability, have given and received a few kisses in your time. ...that's so //cute//. You were their first kiss. You're not even sure what to say to that. "<div class="dear">B-but...you liked that, right? You'd...want to do it again, wouldn't you?</div>" they ask, staring you in the eyes with incredibly blurry pupils. Their fingers, which haven't budged since before the kiss, tap nervously upon your nails like staccato notes of radio fuzz. [[◍ ◍->18]]

"I...yeah. I did like it," you nod, unsure of what else to possibly say besides the basic truth. Yes. You enjoyed that kiss very very much. "<div class="dear">Oh, I'm so glad!</div>" they exclaim, and then think for a second. "<div class="dear">But what does this mean for us now? Are we some kind of item?</div>" //Item//? Does anyone still talk like that? How many years has this spirit even been kicking around this intersection, anyway? You have so many questions. But you are far too lightheaded right now to actually ask any of them, so you just let the most important one through. "If so, I'm gonna need a name to call you by," you say. Your ghost tilts their head - or at least they're moving it around somehow. "<div class="dear">Names are...um, a little weird for me. Or uncomfortable, maybe, is the right word. But it won't be any good for you to just be calling me 'that ghost' all the time either,</div>" they say. "<div class="dear">Oh, this one might sound silly, but what if you just called me...//My Dear//? Or //Dear// for short. Like a term of endearment. EnDEARment, get it?</div>". You can hear the laughter in their voice even under all the usual interference. That's definitely not, uh, the kind of name you'd ever come up with. Once again you wonder how old they are. "<div class="dear">I mean, we don't have to do it, that's only one idea...oh gosh, you can't tell because of how blurry I look but I'm blushing...</div>", they say, and suddenly your opinion doesn't matter anymore because you want to do everything they've ever asked. You reach out a hand to touch your dear's face, and they come up to meet it with theirs. Your skin is nowhere close to tired of that static sensation yet, and you wonder if it ever will be. You might be staying out here for a while tonight. [[◍ ◍->19]]

you realize that dear is being just a liiittle too forward

i like the idea that you catch their "oh i know you can't see me" comment

You don't remember driving home that night, but at some point you must have since you are now alone in your bed the next morning. November sun streams through your window. Since you don't work today, you've got all day to think about what happened last night, as well as this dull, throbbing headache you've developed from staying out so late. So...you're dating a ghost now. Dear. //Your// dear. That's kind of a strange situation. You won't really be able to explain it to your parents. You couldn't have explained any human partner of yours to them either, really, since there are many things they don't know about you, but at least gayness is more easily understandable than whatever your dearest is. You don't question the logistics of any of this, how you might possibly carry on a relationship with a spirit who is bound to a single intersection for the rest of time. How the two of you might go on dates, spend time together, or approach the future at all. All you know is that no one has ever made you feel like this before, and no one has ever felt this way about you. That this budding romance, transcending the boundaries of human communication, is the most interesting thing that's ever happened to you or this boring town. You'll be going out again tonight to see them, of course. Just as soon as you take a nap and some Advil. [[◍ ◍->21]]

You sleep for most of the day, waking only for meals and monosyllabic responses. Each time you open your eyes you feel as if your consciousness is being dredged up into the cold November air from the bottom of a very warm, still lake. Being awake during the day just seems wrong, somehow. But at 10:30 PM you wake up feeling completely refreshed, a brand new person. Which, after what happened last night, you might as well be. You dress up in your best date outfit, fix your hair, and compose a mental list of everything you've ever wanted to do with a partner. By 11:45, you're in your car and on the road. Your phone plays a forgettable club jam from last year, something you didn't know was even still in your music library. A few colorful houses in your neighborhood have put up lights, though you can't tell if they're celebrating Diwali late or Christmas early. Normally you're the type to casually enjoy lawn decorations, but tonight the brightness feels like a painful break in the deep, dark woods that surround your suburb. Shouldn't they be turned off at this time of night, anyway? Light pollution is a serious issue in the modern world. [[◍ ◍->22]]

The roads seem somehow less dark tonight - or at least it's easier to see without your high beams on. Maybe you're just getting used to being out at night for once, or maybe all those florescent deer eyes floating by the shoulder are just helping to light the way. It's ridiculous how they're not the state animal of New Jersey (it's horses actually) considering how many of them there are out here. Your dear is waiting for you in the usual spot, but tonight feels different than the past few times you've met. There are no more weird questions. No time spent wondering what they are or what you're doing here. Tonight, the two of you are just like any other young couple. Including, apparently, all the awkward conversation involved in getting to know your new beau. "<div class="dear">So, how was your day?</div>" they ask, unaware that you live an extremely dull life and have no satisfying answer for that question. "I mostly just slept. Do you, uh, ever sleep?" you reply, eager to turn the current subject around. "<div class="dear">Not really, no...sometimes I'll be less aware than I am at other times, especially during the day, but it's nothing like how you'd sleep,</div>" they say, sounding like they don't particularly want to explain the entire process. Or maybe not; it's hard to divine any significant inflection in their voice given all the interference. "<div class="dear">We talked for quite a while last night, are you feeling alright? Humans can get sick so easily,</div>" they ask. "Yeah, I'm fine, just a little headache. Nothing to worry about," you reply, hesitant to mention the great well of fatigue within you that you've been trying to drain all day. It would just put a downer on the conversation. "<div class="dear">Oh, no, I wasn't worried or anything, just checking up on you...</div>" they say. Their eyes turn towards the road. A silence erupts between you. This was probably bound to happen at some point. You mentally draft a thousand new conversation starters, but then your Dear beats you to it: "<div class="dear">This might sound a bit strange, but would you like to just lie down on the street for a little while? Sometimes I do it to look up at the stars,</div>" they say. [[◍ ◍->23]]

u realize that that's a weird fucking request

...what? They want you to //lie down in the middle of the street?// Like, where cars drive? Where anyone could come at any second? Just so you can romantically look up at the stars together? What the hell, why not? These jeans were already dirty anyway. You lay down on the ground. At first, some part of your brain thinks that you're seeing the suddenly very bright moon but no, that's just the glow from Dear's face as they stand over you. Their exact expression is incalculable, but they're laughing. The strangeness of the sound no longer startles you. "<div class="dear">Wow, I didn't think you'd actually do it...!</div>" they say, the glow around them even brighter than usual in contrast to the night sky. "<div class="dear">It's such a strange request, I thought you'd at least ask why!</div>" They seem so amused by your compliance that you don't want to ruin it with any excuses. And they're right, it //was// pretty ridiculous how you just got down on the ground without question. "Aren't you going to join me?" you ask instead. They're quiet for a minute, and then lie down beside you. You can feel dirt on the road shift around as stray bits of their outer aura make first contact. You wonder if they're actually touching the ground or if a thousand points of static are holding them up instead. That's what the imprint of their bottom looked like on your car after last night, a sharp pointillistic smudge of fog. The two of you lie there looking up into infinity. This can't be new to Dear at all, but you're glad to be able to share it with them. This is the longest you've gone together without talking or touching somehow, but there's a real sense of emotional intimacy here that you haven't felt before. "<div class="dear">...you know. As long as I've been out here, I've never really gotten to know a human. Not before you showed up. No one's ever stopped but you,</div>" they say, finally breaking the silence. "Really? No one before me at all?" you ask, though you already figured that this was the case. They'd never kissed anyone before, after all. "<div class="dear">Yes. Maybe that's why I'm so taken with you. But I like to think it's a little more than just novelty that makes me want to do things like...//this//,</div>" they say, and with that last pause something hand-shaped moves up onto your thigh. Closer to your inner thigh, really, if you're trying to be specific. This, of course, feels very good. You can only imagine how two hands would feel - oh wait now you don't have to imagine because their other hand, you don't know if it's the left or the right or neither, it's moving up your chest and maybe you shouldn't finish that sentence because you don't really know how to without embarrassing yourself. You end up spending a good portion of that night down on the asphalt. [[◍ ◍->24]]

checklist for next pass: university sticker on car? how many days does this take place over? should i give the impression that more time has passed? more mentions of the deer warning sign? how obvious do i want the twist to be? deer mimes oral sex to mock you? "terra incognita"

u realize a strange inconsistency as they are maybe doing something to you that requires intimate knowledge of the human body: how are they so good at this if they've never had anyone before you? and how do they know lots of other things, how did they know you can't see them properly when you've never mentioned it before? u stop and confront them

You spot one of your old high school friends a few days later at work. This happens sometimes, since you work at the local library, and your town is seemingly full of bored young adults just like you who washed up on shore shortly after graduating college. New Jersey welcomes all its children back with open arms, after all. Normally, you'd avoid letting anyone you know see you at work. It's not that you don't like him, you just don't want to have to interrupt the thoughtless mental reverie that you tend to build up after a thousand books shelved. That's one of the nice things about working in a library, how you don't really have to know what you're doing in order to do it. Today, however, is different. Your headache has spread, your spine feels like it's about to curl in on itself after spending so much time on the ground, and so you are not vibing very closely with these stacks. And yet none of it distracts at all from the thoughts of Dear constantly running through your head. You actually kind of want your friend to see all the hickeys on your neck just so that he'll know how happy you are right now. How finally, you've found someone who wants you around as more than just an afterthought. But your shift passes by, and he leaves without much ado. That's fine, though. His not knowing doesn't make it any less true. [[◍ ◍->25]]

You're trying to work later shifts at the library this week so that you'll have less time to kill before visiting Dear at night. Any time after sunset would probably work just as well as midnight, but there's just some sort of logic to it, you think, something to do with how Dear isn't visible at all during the day. Maybe they're at the peak of their spiritual power or whatever during the midnight hour. In any case, the lateness ensures that you won't have many passers-by. Today you worked a closing shift and got off around ten. You were planning to maybe go home and eat something before your date, but once you got into your frigid car and immediately retreated into your jacket, driving all the way back started to seem like such a chore. What was for dinner at home tonight, anyway? Some kind of ground meat dish? The thought bores you to tears. And then if you drive home you'll probably have to get gas. Which means you'll have to talk to another human being, since this is New Jersey where no one pumps their own gas. Sounds like a hassle. You instead choose to turn on the heat and doze off in the driver's seat while the bassline of some song you can barely plays in the background. When you wake up far too late at 12:30 AM, you and the car both feel as if you are about to boil. Despite that, your fingers still feel stiff enough from the cold that it's hard to get a good grip on the steering wheel. [[◍ ◍->26]]

Though you hate to slow down at all when you're running so late, your fingers are just not cooperating with you tonight. You thought that you could at least make it to the intersection safely, but your digital movement feels wooden and stiff as if your hands are slowly forming into two solid masses. If the road wasn't so empty, you'd probably have had an accident by now. The whole thing just makes you awfully anxious, so you decide to quit while you're ahead, pull into an isolated hardware store parking lot down the road, and just run the rest of the way. You're feeling energetic enough for a nice jog, at least. You tire yourself out by the time you spot Dear's telltale glow down the road. You're still a little way's away, but you can see their silhouette surprisingly well - and, more importantly, the fact that they are not alone tonight. They're facing away from you, that much you can tell (there //is// a difference between the front and back of their head, you know that by now), but right next to them is a dark, four-legged creature pushing incessantly against what must be their side. It's a deer. That much is plain to see, just a deer that you'd see by the side of the road on any average night. Not too strange, there's a deer warning sign here for a reason. But you've never seen one get so close to a human or otherwise, almost like it wants Dear's attention. They've got one hand on its head, probably to pet it, but maybe also to push it away? Like always, it's hard to tell. [[◍ ◍->27]]

u slow down and see dear hurt the deer somehow. pull out its fur and talk to it demeaningly

You feel like you should maybe start running again. It must be almost 1 AM now, you don't have time to watch Dear pet a deer even if it //does// make them look like some kind of Disney princess now. What's next, a flock of bluebirds to help decorate their dress? They must have heard your shoes slapping against the pavement this time, because now they turn around, sliding their hand down off the deer's head. The deer, meanwhile, doesn't really stop what it's doing. "<div class="dear">You're here!</div>" they say, and though you're still a few paces apart you hear those words like they're being spoken directly into your ear. It must be a ghost thing. You allow yourself to fall into their fuzzy arms for an entire blissful minute before you remember to ask about the deer. Priorities first. "Who's this?" you ask, as if this deer (that has, somehow, not yet run off?) was a friend of Dear's and not a wild animal. "<div class="dear">Oh, just an old flame,</div>" they say with a laugh. "<div class="dear">She likes to try and get in the last word every so often,</div>". You laugh with them, but you're also kind of sad now. It really must be horrifically lonely for Dear to have to stand out here night after night imagining relationships with all the wild animals that come by. You wonder if they can tell them all apart. "Wait, aren't only male deer supposed to have the antlers?" you ask. They just said "she" but this one certainly has a noticeable, if misshapen pair. Dear hums for a second, a sound not unlike something you'd hear from a tuning fork, and turns the side of their head with eyes on it towards the deer. "<div class="dear">No, I'm pretty sure this one was a girl. A lot of deer out here grow antlers regardless of gender, you know?</div>" they say. That sounds kind of questionable, but you don't know enough about the physiology of deer to dispute it. Dear would naturally be much more familiar with the subject than you. The deer comes up right up towards you. This is the closest you've ever been to one, and your immediate impulse is fear, but it doesn't attack or anything so this is probably alright. Its eyes are actually very pretty when brown and not a terrifying flash of white-orange in the light of your high beams. Nice long eyelashes, too. You notice that it's got a ribbon or something tied around the base of an antler. Maybe that's why Dear assumes it's a girl. "<div class="dear">You look very nice tonight,</div>" they say. Dear, that is, not the deer. Oh dear, all these homynyms are starting to make your eyes itch. The deer presses its head against your stomach. Maybe it's trying to cuddle? You try and pet it, but your fingers still aren't doing quite what you want so your hand just kind of flops uselessly against fur. "Thanks, you look great too," you reply. Honestly, you don't know how anyone could find you attractive right now, as sick as you are, but you'll take it. Dear, of course, is as stunning as always in their lack of detail. "<div class="dear">You always look so put together whenever I see you,</div>" they say. "<div class="dear">Like the coat you're wearing, it seems so nice and warm and beautiful. I like it</div>". To call you "put together" would normally be some gross exaggeration of reality when coming out of anyone else's mouth, but you almost believe it when Dear says so. Even if your coat is actually a very thin and cheap one that you really ought to replace this coming winter. Maybe over the holidays. The deer is still pushing its head against your stomach, harder now. You try and shift your body away a little, but subtly so that you don't upset Dear. This is one of their forest friends, after all. "<div class="dear">I wish I could get dressed up like that...there aren't many opportunities for me to stumble upon a nice fur coat or fancy jewelery or anything like that out here. Mostly just trinkets that people leave behind,</div>" they say. "<div class="dear">Wearing the same white dress does get a little dull after a while.</div>" All at once, this remark gives you a very special idea. You think of it rapidly in between body blows from this weird deer who, if you didn't know any better, you'd think is trying to get rid of you. You're going to bring Dear a gift. [[◍ ◍->28]]

But you can barely get out of bed or even think about it the next day. The aches and pains that have been hounding you for these past few days have finally caught up, and you truly feel like roadkill by the side of the road with an X spray painted over your dead back. Your head is in constant, flaming pain, as if your skull was a cellar door and someone is stomping all over the top. You can't even bring yourself to touch your hair for fear of triggering a stray nerve that will split your cranium open down the middle. Since your brain is on fire, it must be misinterpreting all the feedback from the rest of your body, because everything just feels //wrong// now. When you touch your ears they still feel the same, but you can't shake the pervasive feeling that they're the wrong size for your head. That the fluids inside have been switched with something else. Your eyes burn as the world blurs in and out of view, a set of invisible lenses flipping fast over your pupils. Something pushes at the back of your sockets. That issue with your fingers not working last night has persisted, and now they just remain in limp balls, as do your toes. And your spine is only being kept in place by the fact that you continue to lie on it; otherwise it would curve you right onto your hands and knees. You are a prisoner in your own room today not only because of your various ailments, but also because you are afraid to leave it. You are afraid to check your phone and see all your missed notifications. You are afraid to pass by windows, because someone from high school might look through and see you. You are afraid to open your eyes and see the dresser you've had since you were five standing before you. The only one you want to see right now is Dear, but there's no way you could possibly get to them in this state. The very concept of operating a vehicle right now makes you feel feverish. You fall asleep instead and dream of seeing Dear's face underneath the blur, but when you wake an hour later, you can't remember what it looked like. [[◍ ◍->29]]

the deer tackles u, dear gets mad and shows their tru colors?

You remain in this state for several days, shifting between vague consciousness and restless sleep. You do not leave your room, and the pain does not stop. You lie awake at night and trace the faded glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to your ceiling, and you lie awake during the day reviewing the route to Dear's intersection until you forget where you are and have to start again. You do not talk to anyone. You do not leave your home. Until you wake up at 1 AM one night feeling enormously better all at once. You get up and head to the bathroom mirror without turning on the lights. Your reflection looks like hell, there's no doubt about that, but at least now you have the presence of mind to notice. You inspect your face, eyes sliding around as you stick out your jaw from side to side. Your pupils are blown up to the size of dinner plates, and for each brief second of eye contact you make with yourself, you feel utterly inhuman until the next. In your mental absence, each strand of hair on your patchy, discolored skin has grown out impossibly thick and unruly, so much that the ones on your head are nearly flying away. You give them an experimental pat only to find the beginnings of two small, velvety lumps resting atop your skull on each side. You suddenly yearn to see your Dear. [[◍ ◍->30]]

Descending the staircase, traversing the empty kitchen, and unlocking the back door are all terrifying activities not because of the darkness, but because of how off-kilter your every movement feels. It's like you're viewing everything from the wrong angle, but you're too terrified to even consider what the //right// angle might be. You don't know how you're going to drive in this state, but that is the least of your worries right now compared to the thought of alerting your parents with every single tiny noise you make...or...arriving at the intersection without a gift for Dear. Shit. That's right. The GIFT. Amidst your all-consuming sickness, you'd completely forgotten: you were going to buy them something beautiful to wear. They'd seemed so sad last time about being unaccessorized that you'd made plans to comb over a couple luxury department stores, but now you haven't had time to do any of that. And you can't just show your face to them after a week's absence without toting some kind of apology, it's unthinkable. You //do// know where your mother keeps the fancy jewelery, however. All those old family heirlooms sit at the back of her sewing closet just gathering dust. And isn't that why rings from your great-grandmother exist in the first place, to be given to a loved one a hundred years later? No one will even notice it's gone. [[◍ ◍->31]]

You drive along the dark road at an absolute crawl because you are terrified. Terrified of losing control of the car, terrified of being blinded by your own headlights, terrified of plunging too quickly into the unknown, perhaps. Deer march beside you like they're part of a funeral procession. It's funny how you used to be so afraid of //them// when there are far more frightening things laying in wait out here in the middle of the night. The fact that you're alone, for one. If something were to happen to you, the only witness would be whoever did it. You look up at the moon through your car's skylight, the one you never open. The way it glows reminds you a bit of how Dear stood above you that night on the road, kind and serene. [[◍ ◍->32]]

You don't have the energy to go around your usual way, so for the first time ever you are approaching Dear's intersection from Village Road instead of from Cranbury Neck - coming right up to the head of the T. You can see right away from the reflection of their glow that tonight Dear is sitting on the guard rail. The edge of their dress brushes down onto the road, and you think about how that might feel on your skin. You park right in the middle of the intersection, just as you did when the two of you first met. Turning off the ignition seems like a monumental step in itself, so you just leave the car running. Dear stands up at the very same moment that your feet hit the ground. An invisible string between the two of you pulls you together step by step until you are nearly touching chests. A slight buzzing spreads itself out at the top of your sternum - you've never really noticed, but Dear is actually slightly taller than you are. "<div class="dear">I...didn't think you'd be coming back,</div>" they say. To be honest, you weren't quite sure either for a while there. "I have something for you," is all you can say in response. You really want to give them that ring before you forget about it entirely. "<div class="dear">Oh? What is it?</div>" they ask. Their hand is drifting far too close to yours now, making you lose track of your thoughts. You take the ring out of your pocket using the other one instead. "This ring, it, uh, belonged to my grandmother," you say. Great-grandmother, actually, but you missed that word when you were talking. "You were talking about how much you wanted something nice, and it's not much, but..." You slowly pry open every finger on your hand to reveal the ring. It really isn't anything special, since your great-grandmother was not a rich woman, but in Dear's light it glows like absolutely nothing else. "<div class="dear">I can't believe that you did that just for me,</div>" they say with something in their voice that you, as always, cannot detect. Their feathery hand touches down on yours to take the ring, and you'd like to hold it, just for a little while, but you don't think you can move your fingers with enough dexterity. They put the ring on a finger and it is immediately swallowed up by light. The only sign that it might still exist is a single dull band somewhere in the middle of their hand. You assume that they're smiling, crinkling their eyes with happiness as they look down on the ring, but that is, as always, only an assumption. "<div class="dear">I really //didn't// expect to see you again, you know. Are you...feeling alright?</div>" they ask. You don't really want to answer that question, since the truth is definitely "no", so you just move your head in some kind of noncomittal gesture. Dear is quiet for a second. You think they might be looking down at the ring again. "<div class="dear">Do you mind if we sit in your car for just a second? Is that okay?</div>" they finally ask. You're genuinely shocked that you've never thought of this possibility before. All those November nights spent standing out in the cold, and your black Honda Accord with heated seats was right there all along. You suppose you were just too distracted by Dear to think very logically. You escort them through the passenger-side door. [[◍ ◍->33]]

Dear seems so fascinated by everything in your car, from the crinkled receipts lining the floor to the shitty old blanket sitting in the back seat. They're lucky to be sitting in the passenger seat, since the heating for the driver's stopped working a long time ago. If heated seats are even something that matter to a ghost. "<div class= 'dear'>Wow, you have so much weird stuff in here! I see so many cars pass by all the time, but I never get to actually sit in any. I just want to peel off all their bumper stickers,</div>" they say. You watch them through half-lidded eyes, fiddling around with everything in arm's distance and then some like a curious child. God, how much more perfect would they be if you could actually see them clearly? "<div class="dear">Let's do one of those pictures together! With your thing!</div>" they say, and you have no idea what they're talking about until they pry your phone out of its holster on the dashboard. A selfie, of course. The screen fogs up as they tap ineffectually on the surface, because touch devices were not made for ghosts, but you eventually get your finger on the sensor and pull up the camera for them. Dear wraps themself around your neck, waiting for the photo to be taken. "<div class="dear">Press it, press it!</div>" they say, even though their face is a mess of blown out pixels on the screen. You take the selfie anyway. "<div class="dear">Ooh, let me see!</div>" They grab the phone out of your hands. It's just a photo of an exhausted you looking lovingly over at an incomprehensible glitch, but you're glad they like it. At least the ring is visible. A sudden cracking noise alerts you to the fact that you now have a broken phone screen. It looks like Dear was using the multitool you keep in the glove compartment to try and zoom in on the photo. You should probably be more bothered by this, but you're really not for some reason. It's taking enough brainpower just for you to focus on how the pixels distort around their finger(s). "<div class= 'dear'>I didn't think it would break so easily...</div>" they say, hanging their ethereal head. "<div class= 'dear'>Will you forgive me?</div>" You'd probably forgive Dear even if they got into the driver's seat, started up the car and drove you straight off a cliff, so breaking your phone isn't really a big deal. It's almost kind of cute. But you just nod your head instead of saying any of that. The eye-like spots on Dear's face shift in place. "<div class= 'dear'>Maybe I could...make it up to you somehow. You'd like that, wouldn't you?</div>" they ask. You have no idea what they mean by that, but, whatever it is, you're willing to give it a try. [[◍ ◍->34]]

You start to get an idea of what they might have meant by that when they climb into the driver's seat and sit in your lap, immediately setting your entire body on fire - in the usual fashion, yes, but especially one particular part of your body that is, uh, currently rubbing against their bottom. If you weren't already familiar with the shifting, pins-and-needles sensation of their touch, you'd think they were wiggling it around on purpose. They kiss you quickly on the mouth, and then again and again. "<div class="dear">Gosh, I like being with you so much! You're such a special, one in a million kind of human,</div>" they say in between kisses. A normal person might have to take a breath at some point. "<div class="dear">You're the ooonly one who's ever thought to stop and sense me. There's never been anyone else like you and there never will be once you're gone,</div>" they say, winding a set of impossibly long fingers through your hair. What you imagine to be a thumb runs over your newly grown antlers. Two points of gentle paresthesia tap on your shoulders and they pin you against the car door. The parking break is jabbing into your thigh now, but it's not a big deal. In the process of taking your shirt off, they manage to somehow elbow the car radio. A pop song starts to play, but then devolves quickly into fuzz. Dear's face clings to your bare chest now very much like that static, rubbing and prickling at every hair. "<div class="dear">You like that, don't you? I bet you do,</div>" they say, moving a...tongue, maybe? If they have one? Across an embarrassing section of exposed skin. "<div class="dear">Ohhh my goodness. If I had a body, I swear...you'd get it so hot.</div>" As Dear moves further down your torso, it occurs to you that you are maybe about to have sex with a ghost in your car. Well, your parents' car, technically. You call it your car because it's the one you drive but you don't actually //own// it or anything. "<div class="dear">I don't have any, um, //private parts// like humans do, so we might have to get a little creative with this...</div>" they say. //Oh okay I was wondering// is all you can manage to think before they undo your pants. Believe it or not, the furthest you two have ever gone was that heavy petting session on the street, so this sure will be...something extremely good. And you're glad that you want it, otherwise you're not quite sure you'd have the mental capacity to say no right now. "<div class="dear">I've never done anything like this before, but I'll try my best to make it feel good...</div>" they say. One wispy hand reaches out towards the band of your underwear, while the other is rubbing...somewhere else, so to speak. "Hey. I love you," you say. You're not sure why that has come out of your mouth in this particular moment when there should be no doubt that you love each other, but you realize that you've never actually said those words to Dear before. And neither have they to you. Both hands stop all of a sudden and come to rest upon your abdomen. Dear's head turns away. You want to ask what's wrong, but something in your brain is just too foggy to allow any more words to pass through. The moment simply hangs in the air. "<div class="dear">I love you too!</div>" they finally say, and laugh a very distinct, almost human-sounding laugh. And then suddenly there is no car door behind you. [[◍ ◍->35]]

Your head has hit the asphalt before you even understand what just happened, and by the time you hear Dear's voice boom uncharacteristically clearly through the air, you never understand anything again. "<div class="real">Wow, sorry there buddy, I swear I was GONNA go down on you, give you a nice sendoff, right, but I just kept imagining what if I pull down your pants and you'd grown, like, a furry deer dick or something, and I just COULDN'T keep a straight face anymore! I mean, I don't even know what you HAVE under there, it could be anything by now!!</div>" Dear says. You used to have trouble deciphering the exact emotion behind their words, but now it is entirely clear. The static dripping down off their speech is cloaked in nothing but pure amused malice. "<div class="real">You're really hardy, though. Like, you start growing antlers and fur but you STILL manage to drive out here? That's dedication. Most people stop coming back at that point, they just show up fully turned a week later,</div>" they say. "<div class="real">Didn't you ever wonder why I was hanging out with a fucking deer that one time? I guess you were too deeply //in love// to catch that hint. Oh well. //She's// stupid enough to think she can get me to feel bad, so, like, great minds think alike or whatever.</div>" They kick you in the side. A flurry of sparks spray through your organs. "<div class="real">Hey, say something. Ask a QUESTION for God's sake. Cry out, like, 'what just happened, was it all a lie?!!'. Like, hellooo, hey, it's me, your Dear! Innocent devoted ghost lover suddenly treating you like shit! Aren't you, like...MAD or something?</div>" they ask. Their face hovers just above yours, the rest of their body bending down impossibly low to hang it there. "<div class="real">C'mon! Don't you feel used? //I// would if I was you! Like, if the only one who paid attention to ME in MY depressing horny life turned me into a deer just for kicks, I'd be so pissed!! I really would be!</div>" they say. They grab you by the chin and shake your head around in place. "<div class="real">Fine, whatever. Don't react. I don't even know why I'm bothering to talk to you, since you're gonna be quadrupedal within the hour anyway. Hey, did you hear me? You won't be making it home tonight! Hope you said goodbye to your parents, 'cause the next time you'll see them is when you run off the side of the road into their car and die!!</div>" they say. Something sparkles in the darkness. It's the ring you gave them. "<div class="real">I //was// gonna keep this dumb ring just so I could laugh about how you loved me enough to give me a family heirloom and then maybe, like, stick it on your antlers after a while, but now I don't even want this shitty thing if you're not going to be all sad about it,</div>" they say. They throw the ring off somewhere far beyond the guard rail while not breaking eye contact. "<div class="real">Ooohhh, I get it now! You're, like, 90% deer now, aren't you? That's why you're not reacting, you don't even understand what I'm saying! So could you //stop// fucking looking at me like that if your brain's not working anymore? You think I LIKE doing this? Standing at an intersection for eternity, fucking around with bored young adults? I really am stuck here for some reason, I wasn't lying about that! I don't know WHY, but it sucks! There's nothing else to do out here!! And I know you're not thinking anything at all right now, </div><div class="deer"> `.-` +yo` -y ..-::` <tw-align> <div class="real">but don't go thinking you're, like, better than me or something.</tw-align> </div> o+` :yy``.+s/-.` -/+syyho/` `.` `.--:/+sh//+//:. `:/- -+--:-` ::-.`-:::/o+yo:::///` .:+++: `.-:` `..-so:` <tw-align> <div class="real">Most of those deer, they hated their lives,</tw-align></div> `.` `-//:-::: :::+h:``.`` ` <tw-align> <div class="real">just like me.</tw-align></div> -::/. `.``` :o/:-.`-/. `.:sdh:. `..:+++- <tw-align> <div class="real">So all I did was set them free.</tw-align></div> :::/+ ..-:/+o+++:<tw-align><div class="real">There's MEANING to it, okay? There's a point.</tw-align></div> `./+/::::/+oy: ``./so:/:.` <tw-align> <div class="real">And who //doesn't// want a ghost blowjob anyway??</tw-align></div> /+++<tw-align> <div class="real">It's not like they were good people or anything. I was just another distraction to them,</div></tw-align>///+o::-```:+/. ` `-ys` --.-://++:. -shsss+yoos/-/ss///+: -///:++/:::--::://::s` -o:-ohy:oo:. .+osyo/::/:::. ..-://+o+++:+/sho/+ss+:/hh. /s/:-```.-+syyhyosy+:/yo.` -s-yysoosooo+-`` `ddho:-:::.` `://--..`` :so+:oh/`-hhs::-------y+-: `s. .``-/- -hdo:::ss` ./s+-/so-:::+++/+hs:.---` <tw-align><div class="real">just like everything is around here.</div></tw-align> `.--/oso+s+ ./o+o/::///+sy/sy yo`//` ` /ysys+/yo. ` -:+ssy-`./sys+--.`` //. -:-os+::yys:///+d:``./oss+`-s- .` :/- :s+:oss++so++-` `-:+ys` `//-.. `:/:. ::+/./hyhhysyd-`/+/:-.` `` /+:` `sd/+oyyyyy+:. -::oo/` `` -+:-.``.` .:++sdhhhhs+/+/. :s+-/-:ydhyhho+/:--` .://+: <tw-align> <div class="real">They didn't really love me or anything.</tw-align></div> `oyo+:/so/:::/:+yddhyy+soo--` ::` -s+//shhdy+////--. ./+/. .++/ss/+o+:::::/+oyhhyyhyyod. yo:.++oshhdmNy+:-.` <div class="real">...not like you did.</tw-align></div> `-/-` `.---/oyys+-:+syyhddo/yyyyhhyyd: .yyssyhhhsymmy/.` `.`-::` ``.:::::ohy..:: `../sms:/shs+yhhho:` `+hdhhysssyhdmdo:+. /syso/:.```+o/:-` `.////::+syys/ .md/:/so::+syyo/+syhddyso--/++os:`sy++yhyso++///o+/++/- -+++/:-.-..`` -/y/:::/o/:oyyyhyhhyo//::/dhsys//oso+/+--::::////////- `--.` .sysooo/:/sooysoo+o+::+o- .+y-..:-./oo/....````` :ooho`.-oso+/-.+ym+. .` ` `-/s. /y``-oyso+ +N+ .:/. +ho+yysyys/ohd` `-/ -msyyyshhyyhhd `ddssssyhhyhhds `yyhsyhyyhhhsho /ddddhhhhhho:h- omhhhddhhho:/h/ `hddhddhhhs:-:hh++/:--.``.-` `--/:/osso+///:-.-`` .dddddhhhy/---/syysssoo+ossyssso++/++/:-.-::::/++//++osyhdhhdhyyso+o+++////:/+++o+/-` /ddddhhhy+:--------:://////:::://+++++++////+ossyhyo+osooyss++//////:-:::::::/:://oys- :hdddhhho/::--------://////:::::::--:::/:--:+syysyy//o+//sy+:-:///::-------::::://:::o+. sdddhhh+//:--..-----:::::---:---------:::::++/:-+s+:/+s//s+:://////:------::::://::://+: `hmdhhy//:---..-.-.-----------------:----------://::/yhy+oys+/+//:::------:::::://::////.` oddhy/::-.----......--..---------::----------:::://oosooyy+//::::-------::::://////++o/.: :hdhs/:--..........-------------:-:--------::::::::/++//o+//::------:::::///+++//++oo+-/: .yhho:--......-..--:::-------:--------------:::::::-::::::::------::////+++++++ooosso:/o `yhs+/:--...-..--:::::::::::::::----------:::::--:-::::--------:///++++ooooooosssss+-:o -/ssso+-.---..--:-:::::///::::::-:-::--:::::::----:::----::::://++oooooosooosyyyss/.-. /y//+o:.-------::::/::/++//::::::://::::::-:--:::::-:::/+/:/++++ooossoo+oyhhyyhy:.- //::os++//:::--::://:::/++/://:///++//::::::::::---::/+//:://///+o+++oshhyyydh+:/o `.::sysyyso+:--:::::--::////++++++/++/////////:::/+++/:--://///:::+syhysyhdy+:oh+ `:oyyssoooo+/:::----.--://+++++++/+++++o++++++/+oo+:---::::::::+oyhsssydhooyy: `/shhhys+oo/:----:::::/+++ooooooo+ooo+o+++oooo+oo/-::----:::/o++ososyddyhh/` `.yhhyy++::-:--:-/++++++//+++++++ooo+++ooss+o++so:-----:/+o/:++ooshdmm/` `oyyhho:/:::-::o+++ooooo+++::/++/.`````.`` `:o/----:/++:+sssssydNy +yyhdh+///:--/y/.`.....``` ``` .+/-:::/+//+sssyyyyho. /yyyhd+-//:--/-` `-:::///+o/osssyyyyhho- +hyyhd: :::--/: .+///::+/:ooossssyso+o/. `/dhyhh-`:::::/` ++//--:/-/sooos+/-.../o: -hhhhs .::::/+ `://:--:-/+yso-....``.:o: -ssyy: ::::/++ .+/----::/yso:-.-//+/y/ -yys/ :/:-:// :::---.:+-..:o/::shos .syy- -:---/: -:/::-/o- s+/::+s+ :sss- ----/+: +--:/-o- o+://+s` `:/oo. ---::o. //-:++-: ./---o/ `/.-+` :---:o. :+-::+.` /:--:+ .:--/` +:../o. `/+--:-` +---+- `:-./` +:.`/+ +/:::- -/--:o .:--/` `o-.`/- :/-/-. `//--/: -::-/` `/:-`// ::--/- :+/::o. .:/::` `/:-.os -:-:/. `o/::/o `.-. `+/-:s/ ::///. ://:/:. ..`.-+/ -/://. .s+-:-/ .`` ```.` `-+/:/. ` ` `- `` ` . </div> They take a moment, and then slowly lie down next to you on the road. It's kind of cute. [[◍ ◍->36]]

Story concept [[&->I'M]] writing by Wally-S [[ASCII->NOT]] images created with text-image.com Playtested lovingly by my [[dear->SORRY!]] friends Alicia, Ollie, and Yoshi. Thank you and I love you Special thanks to: [[you ->apology]] (yes, //you//) for playing, my hometown for being this way, and everyone who reads my tweets [[...restart?->1]]

<div class="logo"> `` `` `/: -` `..-- `-/..:. .::` .s. `y: :h+.` `:.-ds.` `.-/+:. .shy/oys: `. `-- ``-smN+. `..-::::.` `..:+hyyd+ .::-:` `:+- :+/-.` `-` ``-/ds- `-:ohs:---.` `..:osoyh:---::-` `-:/- `.-h-` -/. ` odd+`//: +dNmh:.-.` ...` `..---:mo` `:---` -/://-:-+-..`````.::` -` `s:.dhhyyhyyy+-`` ymd/`..` .-:-.``` `--+yh- `/oo::` `.:...:::++++osysyho-.+y``` .`/Ny-`-s`...-+ooo+dy/.`` `-oo/::--/+++s:`./sh/-://` .oo.` .:+hhy. .hmh:-`.yd. ./:` :sy::- .+hhs-`` :s+:ys-syhmy//ohoo/.sNm- sh.. .` `` `ymdds:-yh.` `-/ym+ -/:` ``-::::-:````oy+/-:mo /mdh....`...-/y/:o+ /s``/` ///./+do:+ssyo. `.:sy/. -::-.` .-o+/-yd- .:+++o---:osyhh+-/s` -- hy://ssyhddo-` .-:/- `.--/o/ys+/`-:::ym` `-:/- ` -o. .ymooyddo::``.` `-/. .. ..`/s+. -hmmdhys+dm. :y+.` `hs--+.:hmmmdds/::-.. ./- -:. `-o+ommdmmmy+::+` `` :o/-:yddmN+:.--. .. `-:.` `.::+hmmmdhyooo/o-./ +o.``::oydddNMNh:. --.-. :ds+-.`:+/```....:smNmdhhdhhyhh +m//+ydddh+mNms/ `.-`` -d/.` ./o:ys:/oo---:/+shy/shdhdddhsdd- /mmdmmhhdmmmNMmm :/ -mmmmdyo:-:+s::///. ..+hh//-.-/syymmNd/:ohdyohdmddo/` :hddmmd+:..-:/+y+ +dsshy+:-...--+-....` `.`:yh--:/` `//.`./sh+.:syhyo/+ydhdNmo+s/:-yNhsy::::so+-+-```` .. .-`-.-/+///:::///:-` ` ` `/` `` `-` .. ``` yNMMMMMMNdy/` `dNMMMMMMMMMMMm. /mMm: /NMMMMMMMNho. oNMMo `hMMm: -odNMMMMmh+` `mMMm. .mMNd` NMMMMMMMMMMMMy. .MMMMMMMMMMMMMM: /MMMMM/ sMMMMMMMMMMMMy oMMMMh` -mMMMN: -dMMMMMMMMMMMMs` -MMMM: /MMMM. NMMMy--:/yNMMMN: .MMMMo--------. /MMMMMMM: sMMMN---:oNMMMs :NMMMm- /MMMMd. /MMMMmo-..:sNMMMm. -MMMM: /MMMM. NMMMs `dMMMN`.MMMMyooooo+` /MMMMNMMMM: sMMMN hMMMd `hMMMNhMMMMo .MMMMy .mMMMh -MMMM: /MMMM. NMMMs :MMMM-.MMMMMMMMMMMs /MMMMy`hMMMM: sMMMMssssdMMMM+ oMMMMMMN: /MMMM. sMMMN -MMMM: /MMMM. NMMMs yMMMN`.MMMMdhhhhhy- :MMMMMysyMMMMN: sMMMMMMMMMMMM/ -NMMMd` -MMMM+ dMMMd .MMMM+ oMMMM` NMMMs `.+dMMMM/ .MMMM/ :MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN- sMMMMyyyyMMMMy NMMMs yMMMMs- `:dMMMM: yMMMN/` `+MMMMs NMMMMMMMMMMMMm: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMN-:MMMMh-------hMMMN- sMMMN /MMMMo NMMMs oMMMMMNmmMMMMMm- `yMMMMMmmMMMMMy dMMMMMMMMMmy: `NMMMMMMMMMMMMM-sMMMh `dMMMs +MMMm oMMMh dMMMo `odMMMMMMMNh/ :hNMMMMMMNy- .------. `------------` `:: ::` .-. -:` ..` `-://:. .://:. </span> </div> <center><div class="dear">[[DEAR YOU->3]]</div>

(if: $deer is 9)[[[◍ ◍->10a]]] (else:)[[[◍ ◍->12]]] (set: $deer to (random: 1,15))

<center> <div class="notsorry"> `-::. -::. -::-` .:::` oNMMN``NMMh`-NMMNy. `omMMMs yMMMM`.MMMm`/MMMMMm+` -hMMMMMh yMMMM``mMMy /MMMMMMMy. `oNMMMMMMh yMMMM` oMN- /MMMMNMMMm+-hMMMMMMMMh yMMMM` `/: /MMMMosNMMMNMMMd/NMMMh yMMMM` /MMMM/ /mMMMMNs`.mMMMh yMMMM` /MMMM/ .smmd: .mMMMh yMMMM` /MMMM/ `. .mMMMh sMMMM` :MMMM/ `mMMMy .oss/ `/ss+` :oso. </div> [[◍ ◍->36]]

<div class="notsorry"> ...` `..` `.----` .................` +mNNd: .dNNm- .+ymNNNNNmdo- oNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNh` yMMMMNs` /MMMM/ `omMMMMMMMMMMMNh- /ddddddNMMMMdddddds yMMMMMMd: /MMMM/ `yMMMMdo:-:/yNMMMN/ ``````hMMMN`````` yMMMMMMMNs` /MMMM/ oMMMMo` -mMMMm. hMMMN yMMMMoNMMMd:/MMMM/ dMMMm oMMMM: hMMMN yMMMM -hMMMNdMMMM/ dMMMN` sMMMM: hMMMN yMMMM `oNMMMMMMM/ +MMMMy. `/NMMMd` hMMMN yMMMM -dMMMMMM/ oNMMMNho++ymMMMMd. hMMMN yMMMM `oNMMMM/ :hNMMMMMMMMMMmo` yMMMN -hhhs -yhhy. -+ydmmmmhs/` :hhho ```` </div> [[◍ ◍->36]]

<div class="notsorry"> `....---...`` .+syhdmNNMMNNNNdhyso/` `:ymNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNh+- ./dNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh:` :hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy: .yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMh: `hNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy- oNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMh: `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmy:......-ymNMMMMMMMMMy- .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMh/ -+ymNMMNmh/` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMM+` `.:oo/-` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMh/` MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmy+..`` yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNmmhs++//-.` `hNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNmdhy/-.` .yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNdso.` .+hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMms:` `/dmNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMms. ./shNNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd. `.:oyhdNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh .-//+ohmNNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM. ``` `/odMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMo` .:ohdh+:. .oMMMMMMMMMMMMMMo. `odMMMMMMNds` :MMMMMMMMMMMMMMo. `-NMMMMMMMMMMMNo. -sMMMMMMMMMMMMMMo. -NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMms:.` `./hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM-` :MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNhssssyhNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd .sMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd` `omMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh- /hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNs- :ymMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmy- `./hmNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNmy/. `-/oymMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNdso:.` ``.-/+osssso+:-.`` ````.-:///-..``` `./+shmNNNMMMMMMMNNNmyo+:. .:sdmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNmd+-` `:yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNdo- -smMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNd/` .ymMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd/` `/NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMh: -sMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNs :hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNmds+/////ohdmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy. :dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMho/` `.+sNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMs- .dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy-` .+dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMs- dNMMMMMMMMMMMMMNd/ .+NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNs .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy- -NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMh: .hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMs. :mMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy -NMMMMMMMMMMMMMm: yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMd :MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy- /dMMMMMMMMMMMMMd` `/MMMMMMMMMMMMMM/` .yMMMMMMMMMMMMMm. `/MMMMMMMMMMMMMM/` .yMMMMMMMMMMMMMm. :MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy- /dMMMMMMMMMMMMMd` -MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN: yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMd .dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMs- :dMMMMMMMMMMMMMms `:MMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy- .mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMh. mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd:` `/mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMm+ -dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy:. `./yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMo` /dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNdo:. `.:sdNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMs- /hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNmyys+///osyhmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMs. -sNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmo `:mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh: .odMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd+. .+dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh+. .:dmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNmy:` -/ymMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNo/. ``:syhdmNMMMMMMMMMNNdyyo/`` `..------------. ```........................``` `/ydmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmddy+:-` hNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNdy-.` `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNds:` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMs. .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMh: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMmyoooooooooosymNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: `.smMMMMMMMMMMMMMMms .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: -hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: /dMMMMMMMMMMMMMm` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: .yMMMMMMMMMMMMMm. .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: +dMMMMMMMMMMMMMm` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: :dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMh:```````````.-/hNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmo .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMNdhhhhhhhhhhhdNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMs- .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMm/` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMm. .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNs .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM:` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmddddddddddhdmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMN: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMh/.........```/mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: `/MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: `sNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy. .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: `dNMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: -hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMs- /hMMMMMMMMMMMMMNd NMMMMMMMMMMMMM/ /dMMMMMMMMMMMNd: :hNNMMMMMMMNNs. `/mMMMMMMMNmy+. .-/oshhys+/-` `-sddddhs:.` ` -ymNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNddyo-. mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNds:.` `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNds: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy. .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd:` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMm+` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNNNNNNNNNNNNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMm+ .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMdo::::::::::/oshNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMh- .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: `-hNMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: sNMMMMMMMMMMMMMm .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: :hMMMMMMMMMMMMMm` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: -yMMMMMMMMMMMMMm. .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: smMMMMMMMMMMMMMm .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: .omMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMh/...........-/ydMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd/ .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNs .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNo` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMm. .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMo. .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMNdyyyyyyyyyyoohMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: :dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: -NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd+ .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: `/NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd: .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: sNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd` .MMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: `yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMNs `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMo. .yMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy dNMMMMMMMMMMMN/ :hMMMMMMMMMMMms. .shmNMMMMMNmh/` -hMMMMMMMdh+-` `.-:::::-. `:/oo/::` `` `` `-+hmmmms- `:smmmmho:` `shNMMMMMMMms` `omMMMMMMMMh+- `/NMMMMMMMMMMMMh. -hNMMMMMMMMMMMd+` /NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd:` -mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd+ :mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd+` `:NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd/ `:mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNs` .+NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd+ .dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh. -sNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy: .yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd- :hNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMs. `omMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMm/` :mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNo :hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmo. `/NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh: .sMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNy. .oNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNs- `oNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNd. -yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+. /hMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmsmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMm-` -yNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNh. .+NMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMms. `-mMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd/ .hNMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMy- .smMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMNs` /dMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMd+ -yMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMh: `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMN+ `MMMMMMMMMMMMMMd/ `sNMMMMMMMMMMMMo. ohmmNNMNNmmd+. `.-://::-.` </div> [[◍ ◍->36]]

<div class="apology"> `-:-` `.::. .-`.-`-+: `-:-` .-` .- `-:-``dMs `-` -. sMN` .--dMy `-:-` .-`.-` `dN..NMo.` -MM- ` .-`.-` .::. `-. `-` `-` .- .. ...NMs..` .-`.-`.yMd-. .-` `-` .::. -- `-. 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